Blog Archives

Nix

9/16/2016

In all of life my chief regret
Was letting go of you,
At just the moment chance had set
The door ajar, for walking through.

Each parted on his separate course,
I, to the vanquishment
Of unfed dreams, and other worse
Predicaments that heaven sent;

You—let me never speculate;
We both, in poortith driven,
Felt options dwindling, never great
The chance to take a bite of heaven.

So like a ghost I wander through
The darkened streets and alleys,
Hoping to catch a glimpse of you,
A ghost upon nocturnal sallies.

As you (it seems) have left the flesh
But I am left with mine,
That fruit must rot that once was fresh,
Its nectar’s savor so divine.

Imagination! Both a curse
And blessing in my time—
The need for you has gotten worse,
Excruciation grown sublime.

A glimmer of hope’s shimmering rays
Shines underneath the crack
Of that shut door, that all my days
Of weeping will not see swing back.

Season Wise

9/11/2016

Well I remember when your father
And mother each passed to death,
And now your sister. Clouds foregather,
And we stand underneath.

Friend, all the signs, as winter nears,
Do indicate our time
Approaching fast—not in arrears
Destiny in this clime.

A few things I would do before
I go—to put in order
Some trivial deeds, a meager store
On this side of the border.

That “unknown country,” be it none,
Now beckons; we make haste,
And what your younger sis has done
Is given a foretaste.

Villanelle Grown Out of Two Lines of a Villanelle by Marcus Bales*

9/6/2016

If Bishop’s fine, then maybe Plath outclassed her,
Epatering the goddamned bourgeoisie,
But anyway you look, it’s a disaster,
And either would require a huge sandblaster
To render all the product defect-free.
If Bishop’s fine, then maybe Plath outclassed her.
If one’s experience had been deeper, vaster,
It might have been the stuff of poetry,
But anyway you look, it’s a disaster.
Ah well, Elizabeth was a past master,
Sylvia lost on her Sargasso Sea.
If Bishop’s fine, then maybe Plath outclassed her.
Epatering could not have happened faster,
Save for a Sexton—do you disagree?
But anyway you look, it’s a disaster.
If poets be saints, why these be saints of plaster,
Deserving laudanumious reverie.
If Bishop’s fine, then maybe Plath outclassed her,
But anyway you look, it’s a disaster.

*The first two lines were transposed almost exactly from their source, while "it's a disaster" also comes from Bales. The poem is not so much personal expression as teasing out the possibilities inherent in the lines, especially as they would stand at the head of their own poem. In such a way the sculptor is said to "bring out" the figure inherent in his uncut block of stone. The format is not new to me—my titles The Condemnation, The Arraignment, and The Recusal each consisting of 100 villanelles—and samples, perhaps less persnickety than the above, can be found on my Poetry page.

Paying My Last Debt to England

9/5/2016

Outside the William Aylmer pub
In Kitson Way, in Harlow,
Where racial tensions clash and rub,
Civility took furlough—

Two men being beaten, after hours,
Two visitors to town,
Sustaining injury, as flowers
When bigotry is sown.

It is the politician’s creed
To stir up wild support
If public strife serves private greed—
Though justice be cut short.

How well they riled them up and primed
The masses to a frenzy,
Pompous poseurs: invective chimed
Leads to results all men see.

Farage, Gove, Johnson, IDS—
They all may take the blame,
For spurring disingenuousness,
Rancor, malice, shame.

To England, for her “Mother Tongue”
My poetry keeps grateful,
But let man’s soul no more be stung
By her example hateful.

If England may not heal herself
I pray we do not follow
Her lead nor heed an impious elf
As whittles justice hollow—

That little voice of unearned pride
Declaring one kind better
In tribal faction’s fraught divide—
Of decency forgetter.

Nix

Season Wise

Villanelle Grown Out of Two Lines of a Villanelle by Marcus Bales*

Paying My Last Debt to England

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